Queen & Country (7 page)

The keep to this castle was more or less intact, and within it Sir Amias Paulet had installed a kind of military quarter, for the purpose of defence. It contained the one strong, fortified vault in the Devereux estate, secure against a threat. Above this vault was a small council chamber, where Hew was taken now, and stripped of his clothes. His dagger and his purse were placed out on the board, with the letter he had brought, in its seal intact. A soldier took the knife, sliced the leather buttons cleanly from his coat, and slit them from their backs. ‘I cannot imagine,' Hew said, ‘what you think to find,' as another man prised the soles from his shoes, and let the blade slide through the silk of his cloak. In fact, he knew all of those tricks, and a dozen more besides, that were used by people who had things to hide, and thanked God he had none. He shivered as he waited, naked in his shirt in the dampness of that keep, for Sir Amias to arrive.

Sir Amias, when he came, did not still the fear. The burden of his charge had taken toll on him, showing in his slow arthritic gait, his face, blank from want of sleep, the dullness in his eyes. Recognising Hew from the tale he told, he sent the soldiers out before he asked. ‘How did you come here?'

‘On Grey Gelding, my horse. In truth, he is not my horse. He belongs to William Phillips – that is Tom Phelippes' father, as you know. That is a good horse, and his master is fond of him. I hope that your men, who have taken him from me, will see he is fed, and take proper care of him.' Hew answered full and cheerfully, with a smiling countenance, to encourage confidence.

This tactic failed to put the keeper at his ease. ‘No, that is not possible. There are guards at every town within ten miles of here. No man may pass, and he is a stranger.'

‘I did not come from the town.' Hew understood that what had caused the trouble was the breach in their security. ‘I came across the field. A boy showed me the way. And I beg your pardon, if it inconvenienced you. I have an urgent letter, from William Phillips to his son.' He gestured at the letter lying on the board. Sir Amias
looked at it, as though it were a thing he had not seen before, though Hew knew he must recognise the Phillips family seal.

‘I can leave the letter, if you will. But I believe that his father will expect him to reply. I can tell you what it says. His wife Mary, has miscarried their child. The doctors believe she will not have another one.'

The keeper, it was clear, was moved by this. Sir Amias was a family man. He had brought his family with him to Chartley, finding them essential to the running of that house, not for profit or advantage to their interests there, but because he could not hope to serve so well without them. Without their close support, the burden of his charge would have crippled him completely, and become too hard to bear. He had in his keeping his elder grown son, with the young girl and ward he was soon to marry, and his youngest girl too, the bright baby daughter he had nicknamed his ‘jewel'. He could not imagine what his life would be without them. Perhaps because of this, perhaps because he was uncertain what was right to do, he acted on his conscience. ‘Take the letter to him. One of the soldiers will show you the way. We will look after your horse.' Sir Amias returned to Hew the letter and his purse. Since Hew's own were
futless
, he replaced his shoes. The dagger, he kept back.

Hew was taken to a place a mile or two from Chartley, to a farmhouse requisitioned from a Catholic lord. Soldiers had been quartered there; the great and ancient hall was cluttered with their gear, and several of them cleaned their weapons with its tablecloths. Others played at dice, and swilled down draughts of beer from blackened metal cups. Thomas Phelippes was not there among them. A young man in a blue wool coat answered to his name, and claimed to be his servant. Hew had not seen him before.

‘You are not Tom Cassie.'

‘No.' The boy had a bland, foolish face, placidly inscrutable. That he was Phelippes' agent Hew was willing to believe; he had been trained to give nothing away.

‘I have a message for your master.'

‘I will pass it on to him. He is not free, at present.'

Hew was aware of Paulet's soldiers, listening in. Neither he nor Phelippes' servant wished to give them anything to hear. ‘I would prefer to deliver it myself.'

‘Then, sir, you must wait, for he is occupied.'

‘Is he here, is this house?' Hew persisted. The boy did not confirm this, nor deny it. ‘If you will wait in the kitchen, I will let him know that you are here. The maid will give you food.'

It was less of a request than a command. The soldiers who stood by allowed no other course. Hew had ridden in the rough for many miles and hours, with no dinner but the bread he had wrapped up in a cloth, and the liquor in a flask he had brought from Grantham. He was chilled from his visit to the castle keep, and his limbs had stiffened to a leaden weariness. The prospect of a supper at the kitchen fire now seemed an enticing one. He followed at the heels of the bland, blue-coated boy, coming to a kitchen down a flight of stairs, where a single serving girl stood clearing dirty plates, polishing the pewter with a grimy cloth. The boy in the blue coat conferred with her quietly. Hew saw her nodding, weary in response.

The kitchen was large, and had once been, Hew thought, the wellspring and heartbeat of a country home. From the rafters hung sharp metal hooks, where he supposed had hung bacon and hams; long rows of shelves held stone crocks and jars designed to be filled with pickles and fruits. A small sprig of rosemary, puckered and grey, was all that remained of a banquet of herbs. The kitchen girl said, ‘There is bread and cheese. The soldiers have had all the rest. There is plenty of beer, since the brewer came yesterday. But it will cost you to drink. The beer here is very expensive.'

He felt for his purse. ‘Why is that?'

‘I cannot say. Perhaps it is because the brewer comes from Burton.' The girl was very young, no more than a child. It was not stupidity, nor the serving man's impassiveness, that dulled her curiosity, it was the exhaustion of her service to those men. Hew asked her if she worked there on her own.

‘There is a cook, but he has gone home.'

‘I can help you clean the plates.'

‘Do not be daft.'

She brought him a loaf of dry ravelled bread. He took out his purse, and bought himself a friend. ‘Did you know,' she said, ‘you have no buttons on your coat?' In answer, he asked for her name.

‘Elizabeth. I was named for our sovereign lady queen.' She had it on her tongue, like a kind of catechism tripped out many times. Perhaps she was a relict of that ancient Catholic household, waiting for a master unavoidably detained. He asked her, had she ever chanced to see that
other
queen, kept up at the Hall, in the manor house at Chartley. ‘For I met her, once.'

She stared at him, and shook her head. Hoping to have drawn her out, he had only frightened her.

‘Do you know a man called Phelippes, who is staying in this house?'

But she was wary of him now, and would not play his game. ‘I do not know the names of all of the soldiers.'

‘He is not a soldier.'

‘I do not know him, sir.'

He let her be at that, and while she worked, he watched, and brooded over three warm cups of Burton brewer's ale. Presently, he wandered back and up the spiral stair, to find there was a soldier stationed at the top. ‘Wait down below sir, until you are called.'

He asked for the serving man in the blue coat, who had gone without leaving his name. The guard did not move. ‘When you are wanted, you will be told.' There was nothing to be done but to go below and wait, where the young girl risked a smile at him. ‘You can lie there, if you like.'

She showed to him a mat that was rolled out by the fire, with a woollen blanket, to make a sleeping place. Perhaps it was the journey he had taken through the scrub or the swilling in his belly of the Burton brewer's ale, but at that moment he was certain there was nowhere else on earth where he would rather lie, where every torn
and straining sinew ached and longed to be. ‘Perhaps, but for a while. You will wake me, when they come?'

‘I will wake you,' she replied.

He did not resent the sour scent of the pillow, nor the heaving burrows of that bed without a sheet. Their torments did not touch him, for he was asleep.

He was woken by the light in the narrow kitchen casement, and the crowing of a cockerel somewhere in the yard. His limbs felt swollen, bruised and stiff, and rusted red pinpricks speckled his shirt. He would be scratching for days. The same young girl, Elizabeth, came in with a basket of freshly baked bread, the daily ration for the house. It did not look much.

‘I robbed you of your bed,' he said, sorry for it now.

‘It does not matter, sir.'

He wondered where she had slept, hoped it had not been with one of the soldiers. Her apron was grubby and torn. He watched, as she buttered a slice of the bread, which she set on a tray with a pitcher of ale. On impulse, he asked, ‘Has Tom Phelippes broken his fast?'

‘He has not had his supper yet.' She coloured as she realised what it was she said. ‘I am busy, sir. I must take up the tray.'

‘I will carry it for you.'

‘No, you must not.'

But she could not prevent him from following upstairs. She did not turn at the top to enter the great hall, where the soldiers were quartered, but continued up a second flight, which opened at its head to a gallery of doors, all of which were closed. On the floor by one of them sat the tray of supper things.

‘Let me hold the door for you.'

Trouble and confusion blotted her white face. ‘Hush now, and be gone with you, you must wait below.'

Before he could come to her, Blue Coat appeared, his blue coat undone, woken in a flurry as he slept upon his watch. Swearing at the girl, he moved to raise his hand. Hew intercepted quietly, with
just sufficient emphasis to show that it was meant, ‘Know that if you strike her, I will knock you down.'

The boy lunged at Hew blindly, showing a fright that was not caused by him. ‘You cannot go in there. You don't understand.'

‘Let me see him now, or if he will not see me, let him send me away himself. What should I tell his father? That he does not speak or eat? Does he have the plague?' Hew inquired ironically. In truth, he found it strange. It pricked him into fear.

The boy was desperate now. ‘It is not the plague. But there are soldiers in the house. They will hear you.' He waved at the girl, ‘Go now, leave the breakfast things.' She dropped her tray and fled.

‘There are soldiers in the house,' Hew repeated, ‘whose attention you do not wish to attract. Why is that, I wonder?'

‘It is not what you think. My master is engaged in an important work. He has given me instruction that he must not be disturbed.'

Phelippes had a temper, and was capable of sending his own servant damned to Hell. Hew felt a twinge of pity for the man. ‘I do not believe that you have told him I am here. Was that your instruction from Sir Amias Paulet?'

Blue Coat answered miserably. ‘Sir Amias does not know how vital this time is. And
he
is not my master, with respect.'

Hew said, ‘Even so.' But before he could embark upon a more convincing argument, the door flew open from inside, and out came Thomas Phelippes, loud and in the life, calling for his boy. Hew found he was at last, absurdly pleased to see him.

Blue Coat stammered, ‘Pardon, master, if we have disturbed you.'

Phelippes merely grinned at him. ‘No matter, for the work is done. Run up to the house at Chartley. Tell Sir Amias to send down the post boy when he comes. For I have a packet for him.' He saw the boy's face, grey as the flap of his half-buttoned shirt. ‘What is the matter, Hal?'

Hal stuttered,
‘Him'
, and Tom, for the first time, glanced towards Hew.

‘Hew.
You
. Come, come inside. Come within, at once.'

Tom had a mind that worked quickly. But it could not, Hew understood, have come at that moment to the right conclusion, or he would never have allowed him to have stepped into that room. Tom believed, in that moment, that Walsingham had sent him. By what other means could he possibly have come? Perhaps it was from tiredness, or exhilaration, he let drop his guard. Perhaps the fault was Walsingham's, who chose to share so little of his workings with his principals, that they were never certain who was on their side. Perhaps it was, quite simply, that he trusted Hew. Whatever was the cause, he let him see the work he did, and, within a heartbeat, realised his mistake.

Thomas had not slept. If he had undressed, it was to still the sweat that trickled from his brow on a warm summer's night, his sleeves and doublet folded, cap upon its peg. The candles in their sockets had been burned down to their stumps, counting in the corpses fallen from their ranks the profits from their work. Phelippes through the night had been writing letters, though the letters he had left, in packets by the bed, meant more than what was said in them. Hew, who had spent hours on ciphers, understood at once.

The packets had been sealed, and tied up with thread. There were ways, Hew had learned, of breaking a thread, and a seal, so that the fracture might not be detected. There were methods, too, of tying a thread, and of folding a paper under its wax, that ensured that those fractures were not
un
detected, and he had no doubt that Phelippes had applied those methods when he made his seal. On the outside of the packet, he had written the direction. Besides it he had sketched, with the last flick of his pen, an image of a gallows. Hew understood the mark. It was a warning to the post boys, few of whom could read, that the packet was an urgent one; post haste for life, it meant, and no more than that. Yet Hew had the impression that those few concluding strokes might mark in their decisiveness the closing of a game, and end in hang-the-man. Phelippes had left out a letter set in cipher, too precious to be trusted to the common post. In places, it appeared the ink was wet, but that could not be so, for it
was evident to Hew that it was one of the originals that Phelippes had transcribed. Besides it lay the alphabet, and both were written neatly in an unfamiliar hand. A fascination drew Hew to the desk. He could not help but whisper, ‘Is that cipher
hers?'